At the Quidditch World Cup
by ladymacbeth99
Summary: The incident at the Quidditch World Cup involving the Death Eaters seemed harmless enough to Draco-until it occurred to him that Granger could be in danger from his own parents. Not that he was concerned for her, of course... One-shot. During G.O.F.


Pandemonium had erupted in the campsite.

The Irish had not yet finished celebrating their victory when another raucous, drunken group had surged in—figures in black hoods and masks like skulls, laughing and jeering as they made sport of a Muggle family. It was time for some real fun, they had decided. All of this Ministry-approved amusement was gratingly tame and innocent. The screams of panic, the taste of fear in the air—other people's fear, of course—now, that was more like it.

Draco, however, had been delegated the status of spectator. He watched from the woods, hidden in the shadow of the pines, his pale, pointed face sour, his arms folded across his chest. They treated him like a child, his parents, and then were disappointed if he did not behave like an adult. They could never be happy either way with him, it seemed. He sighed. His mother had sent him here—her face pinched with anxiety, as if there were any danger to him. Father wasn't afraid of these pathetically ineffectual Ministry bozos, rushing about in a panic trying to get those Muggles down—the Muggles spinning like tops in midair. The smallest things set those people off. What harm was it doing, really? They were just Muggles. And they were only being levitated, after all, he reasoned, which was nothing serious—just a laugh.

So why, when the Muggle woman's nightgown fell down to reveal her drawers, did Draco get that strange feeling, like he was cold all over, like his palms had become ice? Shaking off the thought, he forced a laugh and ignored the way it burned his throat on the way out.

The woods behind him were becoming noisy too: a few branches snapping, a loud thump, a muttered oath, and suddenly the grove was illuminated by wandlight. Draco turned.

Weasley was sprawled on the forest floor, his ungainly legs twisted awkwardly. Potter was standing beside him, of course, looking as scrawny as ever, and the lighted wand held by—Draco's stomach lurched—Granger, a coat thrown on over her nightgown, her bushy hair escaping from the ponytail on the nape of her neck, her face pale and worried.

"Tripped over a tree root," Weasley muttered, standing up and brushing dirt off his pajama pants, which were at least two inches too short.

Two things simultaneously occurred to Draco: firstly, the concern on Granger's face for that orange buffoon was extraordinarily irksome to him; and secondly, _Granger had to leave_—to run far away, as far from this campsite as she could, far from the crowd of Death Eaters before they spotted her…

His throat closed in panic for a moment. _Keep cool,_ he told himself. _Get them out of here subtly—offend them. That'll get her moving along…_

Loudly, he said, "Well, with feet that size, hard not to." Insulting Ron Weasley was easy. Pick an attribute, any attribute, and it was laughable.

The trio jumped at the voice, loathing dawning on all their faces as they recognized his face through the gloom.

"Go to hell, Malfoy," Weasley snarled.

This was going well. "Language, Weasley," he smirked. But, to the point: "Hadn't you better be hurrying along now? You wouldn't like _her_ spotted, would you?"

As if to illustrate his point, an explosion boomed from the campsite, an eerie green glow accompanying it for a moment. But he felt as though his insides were shriveling as Granger took in his words with disdain.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she said, he chin jutting out defiantly. Her voice seemed to ring through the trees without her needing to speak loudly. His stomach did a backflip. She wasn't a coward any more than she was an idiot. He was going to have to do this cruelly—it was the only way.

"Granger, they're after _Muggles,_" he said slowly, watching her face carefully. "D'you want to be showing off your knickers in midair?" He froze for a moment in panic—he hadn't sounded concerned for her welfare, had he? Worse, he hadn't implied that he any particular interest in seeing her underthings? Better make it sound more general. "Because if you do," he added quickly, "hang around…they're moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh."

"Hermione's a witch," Potter spat.

_You think? She's only the brightest witch in the school. Hardly relevant at a time like this_, Malfoy thought venomously_. You morons, I'm being as crystal clear as I can be: THE DEATH EATERS ARE COMINGTHIS WAY. GET GOING!_

Out loud, he said, "Have it your way, Potter." He had never grinned with less amusement. "If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, stay where you are." _If you think my father won't recognize her, go ahead and be idiots. Stay here for all I care._

"You watch your mouth!" Weasley bellowed. Ah, the blundering orange oaf, coming so chivalrously to her defense. How touching. How infuriating. And how obscenely beside the point when Death Eaters could come bursting through the trees at any moment and decide tormenting Hermione would be great fun…

"Never mind, Ron," she murmured quickly. Another bang—a few more nearby screams.

"Scare easily, don't they?" he chuckled. It was a little pathetic, the way everyone had become so jumpy. Only these three had much to fear right now. "I suppose your daddy told you all to hide?" _Only intelligent idea a Weasley has come up with so far—how about listening to it, Granger? _"What's he up to—trying to rescue Muggles?"

"Where're _your_ parents?" Potter retorted. "Out there wearing masks, are they?"

He wasn't entirely stupid, at least.

"Well, if they were, I wouldn't be likely to tell you, would I, Potter?"

"Oh come on, let's go find the others," Hermione said—and shot Malfoy such a look of disgust that, for an instant, his resolve wavered.

_Wait, come back—I didn't mean it, Hermione…_

But he had to make one last parting warning, disguised as an insult. "Keep that big, bushy head down, Granger," he said, before the three Gryffindors disappeared into the trees again without a backward glance. He caught one last glimpse of her voluminous brown hair swishing around the corner—it caught his eye, for all his censure of it a moment before.

"What _does_ she see in him?" he said aloud to no one in particular. Of course, Weasley and Granger presumably had never verbally acknowledged their preference for one another, but it was obvious enough to anyone in their year that they bickered like an old married couple, and that was said to be a sure sign. _Well_, he thought in answer to his own frustrated question, _perhaps she sees someone who doesn't pretend to hate her—who doesn't hate the fact that he likes her—who doesn't abuse her and belittle her at every meeting…_ Shame and guilt burned his cheeks. Even still, the memory of the previous year when Hermione, fed up with his bullying, had smacked him in the nose, was fresh. That had been the turning point—when he had to admit that he was a little awestruck by her.

That summer had been strangely unbearable—Crabbe had gone on a holiday with his family, and Goyle's company was hardly intellectually stimulating, leaving him with scarcely anything to think about except the paradox in his mind: feeling weak whenever he thought about Hermione Granger, her fiery temper, her sharp wit, her thick chestnut-colored hair; and knowing that he was a Malfoy, an only son in a very old pureblood family, all devoted Slytherins. He spent hours looking up at his bedroom ceiling at night, just imagining the horror on his parent's faces if he were to tell them that he was developing a passion for a Muggle-born girl. Not that he would tell them—the idea was almost laughable. Almost.

Folding his arms again and leaning against a tree, his mind's defenses gave way to a few humiliating thoughts that he had buried for a long time. As much as he loathed every bit of Ron Weasley, from his shabby robes to his idiotic freckled face, a part of him would give anything to swap with him—to be allowed to talk to Hermione like anybody else—yes, though he hated to admit it, to be a part of a blood-traitor family, so that it was already moot if he fell in love with a Mudblood, so that no one would be scandalized by his choice. Hell, he would even trade with Potter for a little while if he could, just to be around her. He must be going mad.

_*****Author's note: Well, this is my very first fanfic. Any critiques? Comments?_


End file.
